Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY, by BAYARD TAYLOR Poet's Biography First Line: What point of time, unchronicled, and dim Last Line: Will make sad answer to the listening sea. Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard Subject(s): Monterey, California; Pine Trees; Trees | ||||||||
WHAT point of Time, unchronicled, and dim As yon gray mist that canopies your heads, Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines? When, from the barren bosoms of the hills, With scanty nurture, did ye slowly climb, Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores The first-born forest? Titans gnarled and rough, Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth, What fresh commixture of the elements, What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give The hills a mantle and the wind a voice? Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms, Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse chant, -- Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates touch In elder regions, -- fill the awful stops Between the crashing cataracts of the surf. Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of sound, To syllable the secret, -- no still voice To give your airy myths a shadowy form, And make us of lost centuries of lore The rich inheritors? The sea-winds pluck Your mossy beards, and gathering as they sweep, Vex your high heads, and with your sinewy arms Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar, Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells Of stormy volume, is your sole reply. Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the blast, And from the promontory's utmost verge Make signal o'er the waters. So ye stood, When, like a star, behind the lonely sea, Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's sail; And when, through driving fog, the breaker's sound Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy breath Played as in welcome round their rusty helms, And backward from its staff shook out the folds Of Spain's emblazoned banner. Ancient Pines, Ye bear no record of the years of man. Spring is your sole historian, -- Spring, that paints These savage shores with hues of Paradise, That decks your branches with a fresher green, And through your lonely, far canadas pours Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye That wander down to lakes and widening seas Of blossom and of fragrance, -- laughing Spring, That with her wanton blood refills your veins, And weds ye to your juicy youth again With a new ring, the while your rifted bark Drops odorous tears. Your knotty fibres yield To the light touch of her unfailing pen, As freely as the lupin's violet cup. Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of her stay, As in their shells the avelones keep Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's pearly glow. The wild northwest, that from Alaska sweeps, To drown Point Lobos with the icy scud And white sea-foam, may rend your boughs and leave Their blasted antlers tossing in the gale; Your steadfast hearts are mailed against the shock, And on their annual tablets naught inscribe Of such rude visitation. Ye are still The simple children of a guiltless soil, And in your natures show the sturdy grain That passion cannot jar, nor force relax, Nor aught but sweet and kindly airs compel To gentler mood. No disappointed heart Has sighed its bitterness beneath your shade; No angry spirit ever came to make Your silence its confessional; no voice, Grown harsh in Crime's great marketplace, the world, Tainted with blasphemy your evening hush And aromatic air. The deer alone, -- The ambushed hunter that brings down the deer, -- The fisher wandering on the misty shore To watch sea-lions wallow in the flood, -- The shout, the sound of hoofs that chase and fly, When swift vaqueros, dashing through the herds, Ride down the angry bull, -- perchance, the song Some Indian heired of long-forgotten sires, -- Disturb your solemn chorus. Stately Pines, But few more years around the promon tory Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea. No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand, Against the surf ye'll stretch defiant arm, Though with its onset and besieging shock Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards, Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart your heads Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past: The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth Coeval was with yours, has run its sands, And other footsteps from these changing shores Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come To vex your quiet with the din of toil; The smoky volumes of the forge will stain This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea, Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam; Through all her green canadas Spring will seek Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye, O mournful Pines, within her glowing arms, Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low. Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat! Fall, Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull life Fed your belated germs, be rent and seamed! Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, stern, unbent, Your gray beards hiding memorable scars! The winds will mourn ye, and the barren hills Whose breast ye clothed; and when the pauses come Between the crashing cataracts of the surf, A funeral silence, terrible, profound, Will make sad answer to the listening sea. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROBLEM OF DESCRIBING TREES by ROBERT HASS THE GREEN CHRIST by ANDREW HUDGINS MIDNIGHT EDEN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN REFLECTION OF THE WOOD by LEONIE ADAMS THE LIFE OF TREES by DORIANNE LAUX BEDOUIN [LOVE] SONG by BAYARD TAYLOR NATIONAL ODE; INDEPENDENCE SQUARE, PHILADELPHIA by BAYARD TAYLOR |
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